With the foundation of the operation laid, Garrik, Silas, Vanya, and Leon exited Mamá Socorro’s lavish pavilion, stepping into the brisk pre-dawn air of Las Médulas.
They met up with the remaining members of their ten-person delegation at their temporary campsite, quickly packing away their gear and striking down their enchanted tents.
To bypass the heavy anti-Apparation wards surrounding the syndicate assembly grounds, the group mounted their broomsticks to clear the perimeter.
Among the high-tier equipment Leon had acquired over the past two years was his own broom: a Cleansweep Seven, the top-of-the-line racing and maneuvers model recently released in 1986.
While not as outrageously expensive as custom racing brooms, its refined oak handle and spell-woven tail twigs offered exceptional control, speed, and high-altitude stability—essential qualities for both aerial combat and navigating rugged terrain.
Rising into the cool night sky, the Wyrm-Breakers swept over the jagged red cliffs and ancient Roman canyons of Las Médulas.
Leon leaned into the wind, his sharp eyes taking in the breathtaking aerial view of the illuminated valley below as the temporary city of criminals slowly shrank into the distance.
Once they flew well past the boundary of the warding stones, Garrik called a halt in mid-air, bringing his broom to a hover above a secluded ridge.
Silas pulled a heavy brass pocket watch from his coat—an unregistered Portkey attuned to fire at a precise coordinate and time.
“Hold on,” Silas instructed quietly.
The ten members of the delegation reached out, each placing a finger on the tarnished metal.
A second later, an invisible hook seemed to catch behind Leon’s navel, pulling him violently forward in a swirl of colors and howling wind as they were whisked across Western Europe.
With a sudden, heavy thud, they materialized high in the misty canopy above the Tiveden Forest in southern Sweden—a dense, ancient woodland known for its rugged boulders and dark lakes.
Shaking off the disorienting rush of international Portkey travel, they remounted their brooms in mid-air and glided low through the morning mist, weaving between towering pines until the hidden perimeter of the Wyrm-Breakers’ primary base came into view.
As they glided toward the central clearing, a sharp whistle echoed through the canopy.
High in a concealed tree platform, a sentinel spotted the returning flight and called down to the camp.
“The boss is back! Clear the grounds!”
The brooms touched down smoothly on the damp earth.
As the group dismounted, they were met by the two lieutenants Garrik had left in charge of the main encampment.
Alongside Silas and Vanya, these two formed the four core figures of authority directly beneath Garrik Vane.
Torstein: A hulking, taciturn Norwegian wizard with a braided blonde beard, cold pale-blue eyes, and arms thick as tree trunks.
An imposing force of nature, he was equally lethal leading a hunting party as he was keeping order in camp.
Klara: A sharp-featured Finnish witch with sleek silver-blonde hair pulled into a tight braid, carrying a perpetual scowl and an intimidating, pragmatic demeanor.
Cold and calculating, her iron discipline made her an effective commander whether overseeing operations or fighting on the front lines.
“Everything stayed quiet while you were gone, Boss,” Torstein rumbled in his deep Scandinavian accent, crossing his arms over his chest.
“How did the Assembly go?”
“Busy,” Garrik grunted, unbuckling his cloak.
“We’ve got a major hunt lined up. Torstein, Klara, Silas—with me. I’ll brief you in the command tent. The rest of you are dismissed.”
Garrik hadn’t even finished speaking before Robert and Olivia were already striding away, hand in hand, disappearing hastily into their private tent with obvious intentions.
Watching the couple vanish, Vanya slunk up behind Leon.
She leaned close, brushing her shoulder against his arm, her hazel eyes gleaming with a predatory, flirtatious spark.
“Look at those two…” she purred softly, her voice carrying a taunting edge.
“So eager. What about you, my little bird? Interested in doing the same?”
Leon looked at her.
A slow, calm smile touched his lips.
“One day, Vanya,” he replied smoothly, turning to head toward his own quarters.
Vanya let out a low, amused laugh, calling after his retreating back, “I’m holding you to that promise!”
As Leon walked away, his mind weighed the exchange.
Physically, the temptation was certainly there—Vanya was dangerously attractive, and his growing, athletic body wasn’t blind to it.
However, Leon kept his long-term ambitions firmly in sight.
He intended to build a true empire, one that included more than a single woman in his future.
Initiating a physical relationship with Vanya now, while she held a senior rank and a dominant position in their dynamic, would compromise his leverage.
Until he stood as her equal—or her superior—he would keep her at a calculated distance.
Walking through the central camp toward the apprentice quarters, Leon noticed the subtle shifts around him.
The hardened poachers and veteran butchers they passed gave him respectful nods or moved out of his path.
His position within the Wyrm-Breakers was no longer that of a captive; among the rank-and-file, his authority was second only to Garrik and his four lieutenants.
Outside the practice area, Leon found Finn going through his dueling drills.
Now eighteen, Finn had grown into a lean, muscular young man.
His skin was healthier, his posture confident, and his wand movements sharp and decisive.
[image]
“Still working on the wrist flick for the cutting charm?” Leon asked, stopping near the target dummy.
Finn lowered his wand, wiping sweat from his forehead with a broad grin.
“Leon! You’re back. Aye, trying to tighten the arc like you showed me.”
“How were things while we were away?” Leon inquired.
“Grand enough,” Finn said, tossing his wand lightly before re-holstering it.
“The lads treat me decent now that I’m on track for full recruit status. Only Jad still tries to give me grief when you’re not around, but he knows better than to push it too far.”
“Let him try,” Leon said calmly, stepping closer to adjust Finn’s stance and offering a few precise pointers on spell trajectory and energy conservation.
“Keep practicing that sequence. I’ll go rest, see you soon.”
After finishing his guidance, Leon patted Finn on the shoulder and headed into his private tent section.
With the upcoming voyage to Venezuela for the whale hunt, he needed to rest, stock his alchemical kits, and prepare his gear for what promised to be his most dangerous expedition yet.